


Dioscuri

by Elfpen



Series: Historical Hetalia Week 2021 [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1500-1800, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Historical Hetalia Week 2021, baby north america brothers!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29709414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfpen/pseuds/Elfpen
Summary: Having recently taken on the role of guardian to the young New France, Arthur is baffled by the boy’s quiet and solitary personality. In an attempt to draw him out of his shell, Arthur arranges a meeting between his newest colony and his much more exuberant southern neighbor. What results is something he’d never even thought to imagine.
Relationships: America & Canada (Hetalia), America & England (Hetalia), Canada & England (Hetalia)
Series: Historical Hetalia Week 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2178870
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32
Collections: Historical Hetalia Week (February 2021)





	Dioscuri

**1764  
** **Quebec**

Arthur Kirkland wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. He'd long known that New France had a representative—someone like him. He'd known for a long time that it was a he, and that his Christian name was Matthieu, or rather _Matthew_ , and that he was still very young. He'd even heard that the boy was half white and half native, though no one could prove it for of course he had no living parents.

It was a story Arthur knew well, for it was virtually identical, down to his brown skin and blue eyes, to that of Arthur's own young charge, British America, called Alfred. Therefore, when Arthur had signed the papers in Paris, shook Francis' hand and taken ownership of the entirety of New France, he'd assumed it would be easy, taking on whatever boy Francis had left along the St. Lawrence. Of course, the French Catholics left there hated their English protestant neighbors and vice versa, but the boy would be easy enough to handle. His story was identical to Alfred's, and so Arthur supposed, in hindsight, he'd begun to imagine Matthew as a carbon copy of Alfred. He was already raising one American hellion, what was one more?

Therefore, he arrived in Quebec utterly unprepared for… this.

"Hello?" Arthur leaned away from his desk, looking to the open door of his study. He'd heard the floorboards creak in the hall, as though under footsteps. It was around this time that his head of house usually came to pester him to go to bed, but Mr. Cooper was nowhere to be seen. "Is someone there?"

A pair of wide blue eyes peaked around the doorframe. No sooner had they met his gaze than did the owner dart behind the door again.

"Matthew?" Arthur called, setting his quill aside. "What is it, dear boy?"

It took a long moment of waiting, and Arthur was about to call out again, but eventually Matthew slid back into view, shuffling forward and coming a bit closer. He moved along the wall and the furniture, keeping one still-chubby hand brushing along the shapes like an anchor.

" _Bonsoir,"_ Matthew said, in his timid whispering voice.

" _Bonsoir,_ good evening to you too," Arthur said, turning in his chair fully to face the boy. Matthew's English was progressing but he understood more than he could speak. "You're up late—did you have fun today?" It certainly looked like he had. His knees were muddy and there was a stick in his hair.

Matthew nodded, a stray curl wobbling adorably. It made Arthur's mouth twitch, but he did not smile, for he was concerned about something else:

"Why are you still in breeches? You ought to be getting ready for bed soon, don't you think?" Matthew wilted at that, looking down at his feet as though in shame, and Arthur wished he hadn't said anything. Matthew fell fully mute when criticized. "It's no matter," He said gently, "what did you need, poppet?"

Matthew said something in French, but it was so quiet Arthur couldn't understand him.

"What was that, dear?" Matthew spoke up by a fraction.

" _Quand est le dîner?_ " he asked. Arthur blinked at him.

"When is… when is _dinner?"_ he repeated, eyes flicking to the window. It was utterly black outside, sunset having taken place hours ago. "Matthew, we've already…" the boy's face was so guileless and, yes, now that he was looking for it, hungry. "Matthew, when was the last time you ate?" Matthew seemed pensive for a moment.

" _Ce matin,"_ he said, and Arthur fought valiantly not to look too shocked, for he knew it would upset the boy. This was not, unfortunately, the first time this had happened.

"Oh dear. Where's Miss Charlotte?" Matthew shrugged. Arthur sighed. "Come on, then," He stood, and bent down to pick Matthew up. He was far, far, too big to be carried about, but he seemed to dislike most all other forms of physical affection, and so Arthur had indulged him in this one childish thing ever since they'd met. He was the only one in the house who did so. "Come on, then, we'll find you something to eat."

Arthur was a dismal cook, but Matthew was eating up the fruit and porridge with silent appreciation, swinging his legs lightly in his seat and licking huckleberry juice off his lips. Arthur watched him, hoping the boy wouldn't see the worry etched into his guardian's face.

That _morning._ No food since that _morning,_ and it was closer to midnight now than to suppertime. And here Matthew was, hair unbrushed, still in breeches, apparently having fended for himself for the last seven hours. Matthew's newest nanny, Charlotte, had been inconsolable when she'd seen Arthur carrying the boy downstairs, for apparently she'd been searching for him in vain all afternoon, and was nearly ready to demand a search party be sent out. After beseeching her to stop crying, Arthur had sent her and another maid to do up Matthew's bed and have a nightdress waiting for him; it was long past the boy's bedtime. All other staff had gone to bed already, or were else holed away in some cupboard cutting tomorrow's vegetables or mending clothes. This left Arthur alone with Matthew, which was very much the same as leaving Arthur alone altogether, for the boy had always been incurably quiet, staying mute even when he looked like he desperately needed to say something. And that, really, was the problem.

Arthur had no qualms with caring for quiet children, for he himself had been one eons ago. He certainly did not mind that Matthew tended to amuse himself with his own toys and games rather than needing constant attention from others. However, Matthew's reservations defied all norms, and often bordered on dangerous.

He would miss meals and not mention it for fear of making someone upset. He would hurt himself while playing, and neglect to tell anyone until the blood started showing through his clothes. Once, he'd sprained his ankle so badly it was nearly black with bruises by the time Arthur saw it, but he hadn't said anything because he was waiting for it to heal itself "on its own". No child of the Empire, Arthur had tried to tell him on multiple occasions, needs to suffer in such a way. No child of _Arthur's_ should fear telling him what they need. If Matthew had understood his words, he'd not changed his behavior accordingly. Which only left Arthur to wonder: _What on earth did Francis do to this boy?_

Becoming Matthew's guardian was not at all what Arthur had prepared for. After the quick arrival and departure (or resignation) of a dozen English nannies who could not keep up with—or merely keep track of—Matthew, Arthur was now hard pressed to come up with a new strategy for breaking through to the boy. _Perhaps he would benefit from company his own age,_ the thought had occurred to him one day. Certainly, there were not a great many children here on the outskirts of Quebec. Perhaps Matthew's shyness was but one symptom of loneliness. And if socializing with other children might help him, how much better, then, to socialize with another young nation?

And so, Arthur had sent a letter to the colonies. Then, he'd packed Matthew up into a ship and sailed him up and out of Quebec and down to Boston. It would be good, he thought, to have Matthew and Alfred meet. Their peoples were about as different as different could be: Catholic versus Protestant, French versus English, newly British and hating it versus longstanding, loving subjects of the crown. The Americans had been clamoring for the land along the St. Lawrence for years, but now that the French were being assimilated into the Empire's holdings, their minds were not so much on settlement as much as conversion and, if that failed, domestic warfare.

But despite all the tension between the colonies, Arthur was hopeful that Alfred and Matthew would get along. They were only children, after all. They likely didn't even fully understand their own nature yet, let alone their own people, for their cultures were still growing just as they themselves were. They were young and lonely, and could provide each other with much-needed company.

And, in the case of Alfred, hopefully provide the other with a new sense of confidence and, God willing, improved skills in the English language.

They made port just before noon. While Matthew and his nanny stayed on the ship, waiting to be transported with their luggage, Arthur left the formalities to the crew and was off the ship in a flash, knowing there would be chaos if he did not say hello to Alfred before introducing him to a crowd of strangers. Arthur was only just in sight of the front of the house when the door cracked open and a small brown body emerged.

"ARTHUR!" screamed Alfred across the courtyard, and Arthur couldn't help it when he smiled. How such a small pair of lungs managed to shout quite so loudly, he did not know. Alfred barreled toward him, running as fast as his small legs would carry him, and Arthur chuckled to see it. He leaned down slightly to catch Alfred right as the child hit him, hoisting him up by the armpits with a groan; Alfred had certainly grown taller _and_ heavier in his absence.

"You were gone _forever,"_ Alfred accused, expression serious.

"I was no such thing," Arthur told him, tapping his nose. " _You_ have dirt on your face."

"You _were_ gone forever," Alfred repeated, voice hissing through a missing front tooth—that was new. He crossed his arms over his chest. "And I _don't_ have dirt on my face."

"Yes you do, silly boy, and you'd best clean it off, for there's company coming to join us for dinner." Alfred's mood transformed at this news.

"Really?" He asked, excited, "who?"

"I shall tell you once you get inside and show me you remember how to wash up. Come along," He set the boy down, and Alfred proceeded to spring right back up to the house just as quickly as he'd left. Arthur shook his head. Alfred's nursemaid, who'd come huffing and puffing up the drive after her wayward charge, paused and nodded at Arthur, her forehead sweaty and looking tired.

"Welcome back, my lord," she huffed and curtsied, forcing an exhausted smile, "excuse me, my lord." And she turned and jogged right back up to the house after Alfred.

"It's good to be back," Arthur said, even though she was already too far away to hear him.

The fated meeting had to happen before dinner, and so not only was Arthur's stomach twisting in knots of nervousness, but also hunger as he led Alfred to the drawing room where Harold had been showing Matthew around its many books at artworks.

"Now, tell me what I just said?" Arthur asked patiently, holding Alfred's hand as they paused outside the door.

"To not yell, or hug him, or talk too loud," Alfred parroted back at him, sounding slightly annoyed at being asked to do so. "I wasn't _gonna,_ "

"Going to," Arthur corrected, knee-jerk. "Good. Just introduce yourself like you would anyone else. You can ask him about his people and his colony later, alright? At dinner."

"Alright."

"Good boy," Arthur said, and opened the door. Matthew was across the room, gazing up at one of the wall tapestries, entranced by whatever story Harold was weaving about its imagery. Harold looked over when the door opened, but Matthew's gaze lingered. Alfred was already straining forward, hand itching to slip out of Arthur's to go and say hello.

"Matthew," Arthur called, and at last Matthew looked over to see them. "I'd like you to meet someone—this is Alfred Jones."

Suddenly, Alfred froze mid-stride, and grabbed Arthur's hand hard in his own. Alfred was looking at Matthew, and Matthew was looking at Alfred.

A word slipped out of Alfred's mouth, but it was not English—or French for that matter. It sounded like a question. He was staring straight at Matthew when he said it.

Matthew stared back at Alfred with the widest eyes Arthur had ever seen. Then, after a moment, he _yelled_ something—Arthur hadn't known that Matthew _could_ yell—and then wailed aloud, before promptly bursting into tears.

No sooner did this happen than did Alfred yank his hand out of Arthur's grasp, run toward Matthew, hug him to his chest like a ragdoll, and join him in his weeping.

Utterly gobsmacked, Arthur stood watching in shock and confusion while the boys sobbed and cried over each other. He was equally shocked to see Alfred crying as he was to see Matthew being hugged—and hugging back. He stepped closer cautiously, glancing up at Harold, who looked just as baffled as Arthur.

They were speaking to each other through their sobs, and a few words Arthur recognized as the language Alfred had spoken before Arthur had taught him English. It meant nothing to him, but to the boys whatever they were saying seemed to mean everything in the world. Alfred was wiping at Matthew's face, trying to clear away the tears, while Matthew continued to sob, clutching fistfuls of Alfred's shirt in either fist, ruining the presentable, tucked-away folds. Alfred murmured to the other boy and then pulled him back into a hug, holding him so tightly that Arthur could see his arms straining with the effort.

It was only then, seeing their even brown skin against each other and their small heads side by side that Arthur realized what he'd just seen.

Alfred and Matthew were brothers.

 _Oh, Jesus Christ._ Arthur quietly raised a hand to his mouth. Brothers. _Brothers,_ of course they were brothers. Twins, even, how had he not seen it? They had the same skin, the same eyes, the same hair, the same smiles, they were the same age— _how_ had he not seen it? They were just so incredibly different, such utter opposites of the other, he had never even considered the possibility. He'd brought them together for that very reason, that Alfred might help draw Matthew out of his shell, that Matthew would offer Alfred the companionship he so desperately needed. And now…

Arthur knelt beside the boys, putting a hand on either of their shoulders, and the two hesitantly drew apart to look tearfully up at Arthur's face. He looked between them, seeing firsthand their mirrored features, down to the swirls in the front of their hair to the single dimple on opposite cheeks. Feeling tears prick at his own eyes, he brushed a finger across Alfred's cheek, Matthew's chin.

"Oh, my boys," he breathed, not sure he was believing what he was seeing. Nearly two centuries, _centuries_ he'd known about them both. Francis had known. Antonio had known. And had anyone even considered the possibility…? Alfred sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, and Matthew's chin was shaking precariously once again. Biting back his own emotion, Arthur put a hand behind either of their heads and silently drew them into a hug. They clung to him, and to each other, and cried.

Dinner would have to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. This takes place one year after the signing of the Treaty of Paris, which concluded the Seven Years War. In the treaty, France signed over all of its holdings in North America to Britain. Most all disputed territories in the war were returned to their original colonizers, but in order to keep hold of its (geographically tiny) territories in the Caribbean, France surrendered all of Canada to England. Insofar as Matthew goes… ouch.
> 
> 2\. There were a lot of tensions between British America and the former New France (later called Quebec and Canada)! Religion, language, and politics caused enough tension on their own, but add to this the Americans' desire to take over the choice plots of land along the St. Lawrence, and there's a little spat waiting to happen—now a domestic spat, because the two peoples are going to have to wear their Getting Along Shirt if they're part of the same empire. Eh… give 'em a decade or so, we'll see how things shake out, amirite?
> 
> 3\. The title of this story is a reference to the sometimes-immortal twins of Greek myth, Castor and Pollux, collectively known as the Dioscuri, who are the figures you may recognize from the imagery behind the constellation Gemini.


End file.
